I never thought you would find me signing up for an on-line dating service. I am not the type, and besides, the Craig’s List killer is all too fresh in my mind. It is a dangerous world, but one night two and a half weeks ago, I drank too much wine and got on-line. It is all a little fuzzy. I think my original idea was finding someone interesting out there to converse with – one of the first times in my life to experience true loneliness. I do not remember signing up for the service until I log on to my email account the next morning and there are three “winks” in my inbox. I have to ask the service to send my password – not a clue. It was a very good bottle of Pinot Noir.

The first winker caught my eye. I looked at his profile and he had all the information filled out. He likes fishing, outdoor adventures, dancing, he is very tall and a retired professional cowboy. Oh my. Now, when you read that “Oh my” to yourself, I want you to say it like Susan Sarandon says it to Kevin Costner in Bull Durham, after he tells her,

“Well, I believe in the soul, the cock, the pussy, the small of a woman’s back, the hanging curve ball, high fiber, good scotch, that the novels of Susan Sontag are self-indulgent, overrated crap. I believe Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone. I believe there ought to be a constitutional amendment outlawing Astroturf and the designated hitter. I believe in the sweet spot, soft-core pornography, opening your presents Christmas morning rather than Christmas Eve and I believe in long, slow, deep, soft, wet kisses that last three days.”

Each day brings new winks, and with each wink I check out their profile, wink back or respond kindly with a yeah or nay. In these few short weeks, I have come to realize there are some messed up men out there, which begs the question, “what kind of messed up women raised these types of men”? The men that do not post pictures get little enthusiasm or consideration from me. Not that I am a “looks” gal, it makes me feel safer. The ones with profile characteristic 180 degrees from mine make me wonder why they wink. I specifically state I am looking for someone in the Corpus Christi area, but guys are winking from New York, Dallas, Houston, East Texas, West Texas, Indiana, Oklahoma and then there is this cowboy, who is daily writing me a little note, answering the questions I ask in a thoughtful, endearing way.

He tells me it is harvest time and his profession is 24/7 until the last grain has left the Port of Corpus Christi, but he has taken the time to be honest about his life and his desires. Very little bullshit. He lists his politics as Conservative, and I am arrogant enough, in the beginning, to suggest he is throwing darts. He reassures me.

“not throwing darts, I saw your profile, you were close and I wanted to know more. You didn’t really state much, didn’t know what you were lookin for….”

I immediately update my profile. This is serious. I have posted myself, with pictures, to an on-line dating web site! I consider removing some of the pictures.

I receive a message from one guy that starts out, “Hey, Sexy”. I check his profile. Not bad. I respond in a casual manner. His next message was a novel/confession and contained way too much information. The last I heard from him he wanted me to do something with my spam filter and was heading north to take care of some real estate. I delete him.

Then I had a wink from a guy that I had previously checked out, but when I read he has two large female dogs, I pass on him. Remy is the alpha queen bitch, no way she can deal with two “friendly and balanced” dogs. When he winks at me a few days later, I respond with the mentioned reason for passing. He responds he is a dog whisperer of sorts and would like to meet Remy. Leave it to me to go on a dating site and get a hookup for my dog. He gave me his phone numbers, but I think that message was deleted during my massive purge yesterday morning.

And the Cowboy Gets More Interesting

He says in his profile he is a “cowboy type”. I tell him I was raised by a cowboy “type” and want his view of what that statement means. This is what he writes to me.

“I call myself a Cowboy type, because that’s me. I used to be a Cowboy for a living, dressing nice to me is a . . . pair of Wranglers, a nice western shirt, and of course my hat. I don’t wear my spurs . . . since I don’t ride any more. I was raised Cowboy, and Cowboy I will remain till I die. It’s an attitude, a language of its own, we have a lot of stubborn pride, will fight for what we believe in, a little hard headed, but hearts, and smiles, as big as Texas. A Cowboy is not comfortable in fancy social settings, would rather be outdoors, doesn’t care for fluffy stuff, would rather have a cup of black coffee, bacon and eggs, than French toast and juice. Yes there are bad cowboys, just as there are bad people of any kind, but I like to think I’m not one of them.”

He totally has my attention. Spurs? Oh my. We start making plans to meet, but he is in full blown harvest and I am leaving town for a four day weekend. He keeps sending notes and making me laugh and I start wondering what his laugh sounds like. I send a message and tell him I will be passing within two miles of him on my road trip. Thursday is out, but Sunday starts looking good by Saturday night. Messages are flying back and forth from Washington County to Victoria County, into the early morning hours. By Sunday morning, the Cowboy has given me his cell phone number, and I am seriously considering breaking the number one dating rule for on-line daters: Meet in a public place. I have not placed much faith in my instincts and character judgments of late, but we have been chatting for two weeks. I am not sure why, but I am trusting my instincts. I feel good about this guy. He is a pure Texas Cowboy Big Rig Truck Driver, something I put stock in. Someone my daddy would respect. A man that would not sound ridiculous saying, “Ah shucks, ma’am”.

To Google or Not to Google

Did I Google him? Briefly. Do I feel guilty? No. I simply check his name and location information. I stop there. A friend from Washington County emails me wanting to know his name. A co-worker’s daughter from Sinton once worked on the ranch where he lives. She wants to see if she can get any dish on him. I confirm the information he has given me and get the hell out of there. Not because I am not interested, but realize it can lead to obsessive behavior, and besides, I would rather learn his story from him, and maybe my girlfriends, not the internet.

As I near Victoria County Sunday afternoon, I realize I will be arriving at his home near supper time and it is now or never if I am going to, with a warning phone call, give him his requested time to jump in the shower. I take four full, deep breathes. Exhale. Tell Remy we are going to make a pit stop, then dial. He says, “hello”. Deep voice, slow drawl. I tell him I am coming and my thoughts on eating. He says he has the fixings for spaghetti. I tell him I will pick up the beer. My heart is pounding and I have to keep reminding myself to breathe. He assures me I will be safe.

I freshen up; chewing gum, some Gap Rain Check spray mist, lip gloss and, “Oh, shit! We’re here!”. As Remy and I turn on the Farm to Market Road, life slows down. This is familiar territory. I am very comfortable on the back roads of Texas. I begin to pray I am not leading myself into slaughter. I see the grain silos up ahead and I pull into his circle drive. Four more deep breathes. A little rough on the outside, but nothing that would make me run. His rig is there, his pickup truck, his play truck on a trailer, which he uses to drive at speeds in excess of 70 mph and “trade paint” with other drivers, for fun.

Behind his home are Coastal Bend scrubland woods. He has told me of the deer, wild hogs, a panther and other mysteries that leave behind large tracks in the sand.. Remy leashes up and we get her pee break taken care of and before I know it, I am knocking on his front door. I am fearless. I am in my warrior stance and prepared to run should he have a rag of chloroform in his hand. A giant man opens the door. A giant man with a nice, friendly smile. We check each other out – I get nervous. This is up close. Is he disappointed? Am I? He invites me in and apologizes for the heat. His A/C is not keeping up with demand, but I am not judging. It is all good. He offers me a beer while he finishes cooking dinner. We laugh. I realize I am not prepared for Remy’s dinner and he makes her a fried hamburger patty, crumbled. I am impressed. Remy is in heaven. We take Remy for a walk in the woods, I meet a few of his neighbors and before I know it, it is time for me to go home.

I have plans to go to Port Aransas two days after returning from Washington County and we text the entire time I am there. He delights me with his Dirty Pirate speak:

“Would you shiver me timber and surrender your booty?”

and

“A warning to all ye wretched inhabitants of Port A. I shall be coming ashore soon. I will take no prisoners and leave no wench unmolested.”

I text back, “For real?”

He texts back, “I wish.”

We have our first date “date” Friday night at one of my favorite Corpus Christi on-the-bay restaurants and a great band is playing. He mentions our late into-the-night phone conversation from the previous night and I blush. I have a wonderful time. I think he enjoyed himself, too. He sure kissed me goodnight like he enjoyed himself.

The Dangerous Guy

And then there is the guy I blocked from my profile this morning who accused me of being “a bitter old woman” and using on-line dating sites to “boost” my “ego”. Actually, he accuses every woman, not just me. He complains no one ever responds to his winks or messages. I visualize the toxic waste he is dumping on me. I decide I will tell him I have not had time to respond to his first message and was considering chatting with him, until I got the second message, which raised the hair on the back of my neck. I wished him luck with his search for love, and suggest we are not a match. His response hurts me at first, and then I recognize my feelings. Husband #2 . Classic passive/aggressive behavior. Not my first rodeo with that personality. I delete him. Then I call the Cowboy.

I am not sure if this on-line dating service is for me. I feel compelled to respond to each man that takes the time to show interest, but it can be overwhelming. I may be too empathetic in nature to be a good on-line dater. I will admit I was initially flattered by all the winks and messages, but most of the men on this site are not my type. This morning I updated my profile striving to be as clear as possible. I guess I will give it a few more weeks. Meanwhile, I will look forward to my next date with the Cowboy, who can talk like a Dirty Pirate and has shown interest in taking me fishing this Fall when it cools off and we finally get some rain down here at the edge of the universe.